


Vires Acquirit Eundo

by youcouldmakealife



Series: ycmal outtakes [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2020-03-02 21:30:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18819400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “I’m not miserable,” Adam says.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the start of a 5k+ fill for a super generous Kickstarter donor, who requested "Adam, post Ulf, figuring out what else there is for him - professionally, personally, romantically, anything.", which I am so excited to write. 
> 
> The title is the motto of the city of Brandon, Manitoba, which can be translated as 'he gathers strength as he goes'.
> 
> Adam is one of the main characters of ['if all is enough'](https://archiveofourown.org/series/107474), and this story probably won't make a lot of sense if you haven't read that already.

Adam hates New York City. 

He’s heard that isn’t a particularly original thought, but the Rangers seem to like it. Dom likes it. Larsson liked New York, so much so that Adam was surprised he didn’t stay after his retirement. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he missed home more than he ever indicated. Not that they talked about that. Or anything, much. Not that Adam really knew him.

The Rangers exit the playoffs in the first round, and the idea of doing it again, another year of this, trying and failing with the same group, just shuffled a little every season, the same disappointed faces, the same mistakes, makes him feel sick to his stomach.

He wants to go home, he thinks, though he’s not sure where that even is. Not Dauphin. Not Saskatoon, or Boston, or Oakland, or Pittsburgh. He’s lived so many places, but none of them felt right, none of them felt like what people say when they talk about the feeling home gives them. He’s pretty sure he’s never felt that in his life.

Maybe Dauphin would feel that way if his mom was still there, but she isn’t. Dana’s in Winnipeg, but Winnipeg’s always been a city he visited, never really a place for him to live. He’s lived a lot of places, but none of them have ever felt like a place to live.

A week after their season ends, Dom has an exit interview with him. He always does that, did it when Adam was playing, does it with the Rangers, does it with his staff. With the players, Adam knows from experience, it’s just a five minute chat, checking what page they’re on. With Adam now, it’s dinner, drinks at the bar, not Dom asking questions so much as just waiting for Adam to talk.

He’s had a few drinks too many, he guesses, because he ends up telling Dom about home. Not home. The idea of home, he guesses. He tells Dom a lot of things he doesn’t mean to. He doesn’t know why. 

“My cousin coaches the Wheat Kings,” Dom says, like that isn’t something Adam’s already aware of, then, “He won’t have his right hand man next season, guy got a head coach offer from the Raiders.”

“At least he has the offseason to find someone?” Adam says.

“I’m telling you there’s an assistant coach position available,” Dom says. “If you wanted to go back to Manitoba. Doesn’t pay as well, obviously, but I know you’re not doing this for the money.”

“Are you firing me?” Adam asks.

“No,” Dom says. “Fuck, you always — I’m not firing you, I’m telling you if that’s what you want, he’d be elated to have you.”

“I work for you,” Adam says. “You hired me.”

“You’re not happy here, Adam,” Dom says. “You’ve never been happy here. I don’t want you sticking around because you think you owe it to me.”

“It’s not that,” Adam says.

“What is it then?” Dom asks, and Adam shrugs. It’s not owing him anything, though Adam does owe him. Adam owes him a lot. That’s not why he took the job. It’s not why he stays, either, he doesn’t think, except when Dom puts it like that, maybe it is.

“I don’t know how to coach teenagers,” Adam says.

“Like our guys are so grown up?” Dom asks.

Some are. There are guys close to Adam’s age, more grown up than him when it comes down to it; guys with mortgages, wives, children. Some, fresh out of college, or Juniors, probably aren’t all that different from those kids in Brandon. 

Adam shrugs again.

“What do you want here?” Dom says. “If you want to go, I’m not going to take it personally. You want to stay, I’m happy to have you, but you need to actually tell me what you want, because I don’t want you coming back next year miserable.”

“I’m not miserable,” Adam says. 

“Adam,” Dom says, sounding frustrated. Dom’s more patient than anyone Adam’s ever met. It’s hard to frustrate him, but Adam always seems to manage it.

Adam wants to go home, and Brandon isn’t it, but it’s closer than New York is. How he knows that, he doesn’t know, but. 

“I can give Warren a call,” Dom says, like he can see the answer on Adam’s face. “Let him know you’re interested.”

“Okay,” Adam says.

“Yeah?” Dom asks.

“Yeah,” Adam says. “Okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

Adam flies to Winnipeg, visits Dana and the boys. It’s something he always does during the offseason, but this time he’s got business too. Warren Travis drives into Winnipeg to meet with him, something Adam feels bad about until he finds out he’s flying home the next day, would have had to come to Winnipeg anyway, said on the phone he didn’t like phone interviews much, liked to see someone face to face.

Adam meets Warren at a hotel restaurant in Winnipeg near the airport. Adam’s not good at phones, but then, he’s not really good in person either. He’s not sure which one would have been better, which one would have been worse. 

“I’m going to tell you this straight out,” Warren says after they’ve ordered drinks — beer for him, water for Adam. “You have the job.”

“Oh,” Adam says.

“Now order a damn beer,” Warren says, waving the waitress back over, and Adam orders the same beer Warren got.

“I have the job,” Adam says. It’s not really the kind of thing you can hear wrong, but it doesn’t make sense either. “You haven’t interviewed me.”

Warren shrugs. “I don’t need to.”

“This isn’t because Dom told you to—” Adam says.

“Rousseau,” Warren says. “You’ve got a Gold medal and a Cup ring. You’re a three time All-Star. You coached the _Rangers_.”

“Assistant coached,” Adam says. And being a good player doesn’t mean you’re a good coach.

“Any Dub team would beg you to coach for them if you offered,” Warren says. “Frankly you should be getting _my_ job. So if you want to work for me, I’m sure as shit not going to say no, even though you’re massively overqualified for it.”

“Oh,” Adam says.

“Okay?” Warren asks.

“Okay,” Adam says.

“Alright,” Warren says, holding his hand out, and they shake on it, like kids in the playground after making a bet.

*

The contract comes later. It doesn’t pay much, but Adam could afford to do it for free. He reads it over once, signs it, sends it back.

Dana’s happy about it. “You can see the boys more,” she says, and he guesses that’s true. Until now, he’s only been in Winnipeg offseasons, holidays, but he doesn’t have much of an excuse not to come when he’s only a couple hundred kilometres away. 

“Looking forward to it,” Adam says, meaning it.

“You know they’re going to want to go to all the Wheat Kings games now,” Dana says.

“They’re welcome any time,” Adam says, meaning that too.

Adam books a flight for New York, considers it the last one, even though he knows that’s stupid, that it’s not like he’s never going back. It feels like the last one.

Dom’s still in New York when he gets back, in meetings with management about the combine, the draft. He calls Adam up, like Warren told him he got the job, like he figured out Adam would have to come back in order to leave. He takes him out to dinner, orders an expensive bottle of wine.

“To celebrate,” he says.

“You find a replacement?” Adam asks.

“You’re not exactly replaceable,” Dom says.

Adam’s sure that’s not true.

“We’re looking,” Dom says, and Adam doesn’t know why that makes him feel a little sad. It shouldn’t. You can’t just leave a spot open, not on a roster, not on the coaching staff. People need to be replaced, and it’s not like Dom fired him. Adam’s the one who left him.

“I’m sorry,” Adam says.

“For what?” Dom asks.

“The trouble,” Adam says. 

Dom blows out a breath. “No trouble,” he says, eventually, and Adam’s sure that’s not true either.

*

Adam hires a moving company, packs. It takes longer than he thought it would, longer than it did when he moved to New York. He’s picked things up along the way without noticing. He doesn’t throw anything out, but he donates some stuff he doesn’t need, and the rest goes on the truck to follow him to Brandon. He flies back to Winnipeg. Gets in late, sleeps on Dana’s couch, gets on the road first thing. Dana offered to help him look for places, but she’s got other things to do, and Adam doesn’t want him being close by to be a burden.

He spends the first day just wandering around, even though he should be looking at houses. He’s got some time.

Brandon’s a quiet town. Adam wouldn’t have thought that, growing up. It’s more than five times the size of Dauphin. But after New York, it feels almost empty in comparison, the smallest place he’s lived in since he was sixteen years old and Dauphin wasn’t home except during the offseasons. Since he was thirty-one years old and he went back to Dauphin, spent most of a year watching his mother die.

He feels like he can breathe here. He didn’t even notice he wasn’t until he could again. Big lungfuls of air.


	3. Chapter 3

Adam starts looking for a place to stay. To live, he supposes, because the rent options aren’t great, and the houses are cheap, and not just in comparison to New York. He puts a down-payment on a house just outside of the downtown, and it costs less than he would have made in a game at the height of his career. He could afford to buy it outright, easy, but he can’t bring himself to do that. 

The yard’s bigger than his apartment was. A lot bigger. He didn’t think of that when he was buying it, the pain in the ass that mowing the lawn is going to be. He should have. The kitchen’s old fashioned. No dishwasher. He buys new dishes and cutlery at Wal-Mart the day he gets his key and washes them by hand, puts them in the empty cupboards. His furniture hasn’t come yet, so he goes back to the hotel he’s staying at, sleeps there. The next day, he goes out and buys groceries, picks up a doormat from the house section. It’s not the kind that says anything, just the kind you wipe your feet on before you come inside.

He eats dinner that night on the floor, washes his plate, his fork, goes back to the hotel. The next morning, the moving truck’s there. They won’t let Adam help, and he gets it, they probably can’t, insurance or something, but it makes him feel restless, watching. He starts unpacking boxes, kitchen first. Two sets of dishes now, but there are a lot of cupboards, and there’s room. Maybe Dana will want them. They’re nice plates, the ones from New York, nicer than the ones he bought. It was maybe stupid to buy new ones, when he didn’t need them.

“Sure, I’ll take ‘em,” Dana says when he calls her that night. “Maybe when we come see the house.”

“You don’t have to,” Adam says.

“I want to,” Dana says.

“It’s nothing special,” Adam says.

“I want to,” Dana repeats. 

“Okay,” Adam says. “Whenever you want.”

Adam doesn’t have a lot to do until Warren gets back to town. He unpacks everything. He buys a lawnmower, mows the lawn, which takes half the afternoon. He buys beds for the guest rooms. He has two of them, which is the most he’s ever had, and he puts two sets of bunk beds in one, in case the boys want to sleep over.

They do, when Dana brings them, they fight over who has to sleep on the bottom bunk and they run around in the yard, kick around a soccer ball they found somewhere — Adam doesn’t have one, so he doesn’t know — and when they leave Dana takes the plates from New York with her.

*

Working in the WHL is a lot like working in the NHL, and a lot different. The foundations are the same, but some of the players they’re dealing with are kids. Well, they’re all kids, but some are underage. Kids who’ve got rights, who can’t be worked too hard. It’s different than when Adam was playing in the WHL. The kind of things Warren tells him to look out for, his old coaches would have turned a blind eye. Did turn a blind eye.

Warren’s a lot like Dom. He doesn’t look anything like him, carry himself like him at all, doesn’t seem to share anything of Dom beside the Travis name, at least on the surface, but the way he goes about things, says what he means, it’s a lot like Dom is, almost more like a brother. Dom grew up with him, Adam remembers, somewhere in Southern Ontario. He doesn’t want any bullshit. He won’t allow any bullshit. Adam appreciates that.

The kids haven’t come in yet, but they have everything ready for them, have a plan for the season, a roster they’re trying to go for, fast, productive, not overly physical, always pushing forward. Warren tells Adam what to look for in training camp, the skills, the intangibles. Adam’s better at seeing the skills, which is funny, because Dom said he hired him for those intangibles Warren is telling him to look for. Didn’t hire him for his snap shot, obviously. A good snap shot doesn’t transfer to anything, once you’re off the ice.

Adam has a moment of panic the night before training camp starts, almost paralyzing, thinking about some kid coming to him, homesick, wanting comfort, and then he remembers himself at sixteen, seventeen, remembers the guys he played with. None of them will ask, even if they need it. Especially if they need it.

It’s a relief, and it’s sad, all at the same time. He wants to make himself available, as uncomfortable as it would be, but he’s not sure how. He doesn’t think they’d take him up on it, even if he tried. He was so homesick he felt sick, his first few months in Saskatoon. Walked around with a stomachache every single day, but his mom was so proud of him that he couldn’t tell her, let alone anyone else. He’s still a little homesick now, but he’s figured out that’s for a person, not a place, and he can’t go back to her now. This is the closest he can get.

Dana’s bringing the boys to watch the first preseason game. She already bought the tickets. Adam told her he could have done that for her, but she just said he could do it next time. They’re all going to sleep over, and he went to Wal-Mart, bought three soccer balls, so they wouldn’t have to fight over them. Identical, one each, because he knows if they were different, they’d fight over them anyway.

It’s the closest he can get.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s fall in the air when the hockey season gets going. It’s not quite there yet, the last haze of summer still settled over Brandon, but he can feel the change. His first fall in Manitoba since he was taking care of his mom, first time he’s here without an endpoint — season, next game, mortality — since he was a teenager. He’s not sure how he feels about it. Nervous, he thinks. 

The kids stream in from everywhere — the prairies, the mid-west, northern BC, southern California, a town in Finland Adam’s never heard of, a city in Slovakia he has. Nothing’s holding them together except ambition and the crest on their jerseys, but Adam can’t tell them apart anyway, at least not yet.

Warren makes a speech the first morning of training camp, and Adam’s relieved it isn’t him that has to do it. He introduces Adam too, so all Adam has to do is raise a hand and wave.

They all look so young. Like children. People said that about him when he was that age, and he hated it, but they were right. Sixteen, some of them, and they all think they know everything.

It takes years and years to figure out how little you do know. Some people never seem to learn that, either.

Adam forgot, coaching the Rangers, how raw talent can be. There are guys on the Wheat Kings who are good enough to make the NHL eventually, but none of them are good enough right now. Even Rangers rookies Adam coached were miles ahead of these kids.

He likes this more, he thinks. He feels like he can make a difference. Coaching isn’t fine-tuning at this level, it’s getting in and molding someone. The ones who don’t listen, the ones who don’t want to be molded, he can’t do anything for them, but for the ones who do, he can do a lot. It’s good, feeling like he’s doing something useful. He doesn’t think he was very useful on the Rangers. Dom would disagree, he’s sure, but it doesn’t matter.

He learns names. Last names first, then nicknames quickly after that, because they all call each other by those. The kids call him A-Bomb, or Goldie, presumably for the medal. They call Warren Coach, or Big W. They’re not very creative. Adam supposes he should be grateful he doesn’t have the sort of last name that’s easy to twist, resists the -zy, the -er. They have two Burns. One’s Burnsy, one’s Burner. It takes Adam a few weeks to remember which is meant to be which. Burner’s the Saskatchewan kid, Burnsy the one from Wisconsin. They wear their hats backwards and their shirts collared, shoot more hard than accurate, and room together on the road, which doesn’t help.

Once the team’s down to its core, Adam has an easier time with it, slotting everyone into place. He starts picking up on personalities, on and off the ice: Hart never stops talking off it, but he’s single-minded on it. Sorenson needs to get a lid on his temper on the ice, but he’s pretty quiet off it. Burns — Burner — takes every piece of advice Adam can give him, and immediately gets to work making it a reality. He’s always the first player in the room and the last to leave. 

Dana comes down with the boys, and Adam’s house is crowded and noisy, feels too small for him, then feels too big again when they leave. He spends two off days trying to fix a leaking pipe, the sort of thing he’d always had landlords to deal with, spends more time googling what to do than actually doing it. He fixes it eventually. Feels pretty proud of himself until it starts leaking again a few days later. He hires a plumber after that, and tries not to wonder how little he thinks of him, a grown man who doesn’t know what to do with his own house.

The kids start the season slow, a little awkward, the chemistry shaky, but they pick up speed as they go, and by the time fall’s settled itself, brown leaves and bitter wind, they seem like a unit, feel like a unit, one Adam is a part of, not just standing at the outskirts, tentatively offering suggestions. Him and Warren have a lot of late nights, when Warren’s kids are in bed and his wife’s catching up on TV, talking things out. Or on the road, in a hotel room, or in the business centre, if they have one, Warren with one eye on the lobby to see if any of the kids are breaking curfew.

The Rangers come to Winnipeg in November, and Dom asks if he wants to grab dinner. It’s quite a drive for dinner, and Adam’s going to have to turn right around after or get a hotel room and leave early, since the Wheat Kings have practice the next morning. Adam says yes anyway, because it’s Dom, and Adam owes him this job, his last job, more than that. Dom spoke out for him, those last few years, no matter how much backlash he got for it. Adam can do a bit of a drive, though he hasn’t been back to Winnipeg since the summer. He’s seen a lot of Dana and the boys, more than he expected, but they always come to him.

“Having fun?” Dom says. It’s the first question he asks, and Adam says yes, a little surprised to find that feels true.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes a few months for Adam to realize he’s not really an adult. Or — he is, obviously he is, he’s almost in his forties for christsakes. But he’s not really sure how to live alone. He’d done it for years, but not like this. It was home, then billets, then oversized places, too big for him, balanced meals provided for him at the arena and whenever he was on the road, and meal delivery for when he wasn’t. 

Even when he retired, it wasn’t much different, at least after Dom offered him the job. Adam didn’t spend a lot of time in Scarsdale, usually around the practice facilities, the rink, whenever they weren’t traveling. The WHL doesn’t really offer any of that; Adam isn’t walking into Keystone and finding a lavish spread of health conscious options set out for players and staff. They don’t have that kind of budget. 

So he has to do it himself, and he’s learned that he’s not very good at it. He’s tried cooking the sort of meals he needs to eat, can’t excuse the cost of delivery when he isn’t making enough for it. Not that his bank account can’t take it, but it feels wasteful, and anyway, it’s not like Brandon has the sort of healthy prepared meal delivery that New York did. 

Cooking’s harder than he thought. Or maybe not. He doesn’t think he has the attention span for it, gets frustrated with how long everything takes and then mostly goes and makes himself a sandwich instead. He’s gotten out of shape. He’s eating like crap on their road trips because there isn’t much choice, and he’s eating like crap at home because he can’t be bothered to cook, and he’ll sometimes show up early to practice, get some skating in, but other than that, he hasn’t been particularly active. 

He tries to be better. Tries to cook more, but attempting anything more involved than an omelette or pasta with tomato sauce just leads to him getting frustrated and making another sandwich. All the delivery options around him are even worse than his half-hearted sandwiches — he has his pick of pizza places, but not much else. 

Eventually when he’s home, more often than not, he finds himself at a small restaurant a few kilometres away — walks it, despite the cold, so at least he’s getting some activity. He finds himself eating sandwiches there too, most times, but they’re a little more complex than turkey and lettuce, maybe a few slices of tomato if he remembered to buy any. Salad instead of fries, dressing on the side. Maybe the soup of the day, more and more as it gets colder. 

It’s probably a sign he comes too much when the servers bring him a water when they bring him the menu, plus coffee if he’s there for breakfast or lunch, a Molson if he’s there for dinner. Tell him the soup of the day as they do it. Adam’s predictable, he supposes. His world is pretty small: house, rink, grocery store, this restaurant. And then on the road: hotel, rinks, restaurants. They try to avoid the chain ones, but sometimes, in the smaller towns, there isn’t much else to pick from. The best rated restaurant in Lethbridge is a Moxie’s. Adam misses the restaurants in New York City, NHL cities, but honestly, not much else.

They go to Saskatoon, Moose Jaw, Regina — win, loss, OT win, three solid games from the kids — and it’s a relief when he’s back in Brandon. It’s definitely a sign he comes too much when he comes into Herb’s for lunch and along with his coffee, his menu, he gets a ‘hey stranger, been awhile’. It’s barely been a week. Maybe he should try cooking again. Spring for a meal service or something.

Instead he orders a sandwich, a side salad, no dressing, the soup of the day — minestrone — and wonders what they must think about him, what they think he does for a living. Travelling salesman, maybe, with his schedule. Nothing glamorous. Not that his job is glamorous, at least not anymore, but he likes it well enough. 

“Extra crackers,” his waitress — Heather — says with a smile when she puts the soup down, and Adam knows that for what it is, being nice to the regular, so he eats them even though he’s got more than enough bread coming with the sandwich.

“Boys look good this year,” Heather says, when she returns with his sandwich. 

“Pardon?” Adam asks.

“The Wheat Kings,” Heather says. 

“I didn’t—” Adam says. “Sure.”

“You just started coaching for them, right?” Heather says.

“Assistant coach,” Adam says.

“Sorry if I’m intruding,” Heather says. “It’s just my sister’s family is billeting Kaleb.”

Brightman. He’s a big kid, good head on his shoulders, great hockey IQ. He’s one of the ones Adam can see carving out a pro career. Probably not NHL, but pro. It feels like a big coincidence, but then, this isn’t New York, not even Pittsburgh or Oakland. Something he has to get used to again. 

“Oh,” Adam says. “No, it’s — it’s no intrusion.”

“She says Kaleb just raves about you,” Heather says. “Says you’re a hardass.”

“That’s a good thing now?” Adam says.

“Says says he’s never played better,” Heather says. “I wouldn’t know, but Ellie says she agrees with him.”

“He’s a good kid,” Adam says.

“He is,” Heather says. “I never got your name.”

She probably knows it, considering, but then, he doesn’t know her name because they were introduced, just because he’s heard other people call her that. “Adam,” he says, holds his hand out.

“Heather,” she says, taking it. “How’re you liking Brandon? Must be a big adjustment from New York.”

Definitely knows his name, and far more about him than he knows about her, but then, it’s as easy as looking him up on Wikipeda.

“It’s good,” Adam says. “I’m from a few hours away, so not too big.”

“Well then,” she says. “Welcome back home.”

“Good to be home,” Adam says, and when she grins at him, he smiles back.


	6. Chapter 6

Adam goes on a road trip. Comes back, gets the same old ‘been awhile’ when he goes to Herb’s for dinner. Heather gets him his beer, soup of the day. There’s a sandwich special, and it sounds good enough, so he takes her up on it.

“My husband and I are having a party this weekend if you wanted to come around,” Heather says when she brings him the sandwich. “Meet some people.”

“I have a game on Sunday,” Adam says.

“It’s Saturday afternoon,” Heather says. “Nothing that’s going to go too late.”

“Oh,” Adam says. “I’m not really—”

“Social?” Heather asks.

He can’t say yes to that, though it’s true. It seems like a conflict of interest to accept, her being his waitress, her sister billeting one of his players. But then, Adam knows conflicts of interest. Larsson — as far as conflicts of interests go, this one’s downright innocent in comparison. Adam can’t really talk conflict of interest, not after that. He’d have been fired if anyone knew. Blackballed too. Wouldn’t have this job, that’s for sure. Thinking about it still makes him feel sick.

“I’m not really the partying type,” Adam says.

“It’s just going to be some beers, some food, some conversation,” Heather says.

Well. He likes two of those well enough, he guesses.

“Low key,” she says. “People your age. I know it can be hard to make friends when you move somewhere new.”

Adam hadn’t really been paying much attention, but now that he’s looking, Heather’s got to be in her early thirties. Not his age, but certainly closer than anyone he sees but Warren, some of the support guys. Hell, closer than Warren, who must be in his late fifties, as far removed from Adam as the older Wheat Kings, which is strange to think about. Adam hadn’t really been thinking about it, but after being surrounded by teenagers, their endless, exhausting energy, it does sound kind of nice to have a beer, eat some food, maybe talk to someone, if he feels like it. He probably won’t, but Heather looks hopeful, and for some reason he doesn’t want to let her down.

“Okay,” Adam says. Maybe he should sound more excited about it, but she looks happy to hear it anyway. 

“Perfect,” she says. Writes down her address, the date and time, on the pad she writes her orders down, or he assumes she does. She doesn’t write his orders down. Probably doesn’t have to. They’re never very complicated.

“Come by any time after three,” she says. 

“Should I bring anything?” Adam asks, remembering, belatedly, that’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to do.

“Just yourself,” she says, but he brings a nice bottle of wine, a vegetable platter. Feels foolish about it, the same way he’d felt foolish standing in front of his bureau, trying to find something that wasn’t either a suit or meant for work outs, a gap in his wardrobe he’d never really filled. He’d settled on suit pants, a button up shirt, and he’s the most dressed up person there by far. It’s enough to make him self-conscious, though he thinks he would be anyway.

Adam sees one of the waitstaff he usually gets during the breakfast shift, ducks into the kitchen, feeling like it’d be awkward if he said hi to her, even though he’s at Heather’s house, and she works there too. But she invited him; it’s weird seeing people outside of work, when that’s the only way you know them. He’s relieved that Heather’s sister isn’t there; he’s only ever seen her after games, picking Brightman up, and that’d feel even weirder. 

Heather finds him after he’s found a beer, tucked himself into a corner, insists on making introductions, which he’d rather not do. First her husband Johnny, then everyone who’s with him, a blur of names and handshakes, faces Adam isn’t going to remember, before he’s planted in the living room.

“My friend Andrea,” Heather says. “I think you have a lot in common.”

Adam doesn’t know how she’d know that, considering all she knows about him is that he comes to her restaurant too much, what he usually eats, and that he coaches hockey. But she’s disappeared, no more introductions coming his way, so he guesses he doesn’t mind.

“I’m a big Jets fan,” Andrea offers. “Like catching Wheat Kings games too.”

“Oh,” Adam says.

“You’re their coach, right?” Andrea asks.

“Assistant,” Adam says. “I’m assistant coach.”

“That’s so interesting!” she says, and Adam looks down at her hand on his arm, realises Heather’s trying to match them up. He didn’t use to notice those things.

Adam doubts most people like talking about their job all day, especially if it’s with people that might just be judging you on the job you’re doing, and talking to Andrea feels more like a job interview than a conversation. Maybe more a test than anything.

He supposes he’d be considered a catch, as arrogant as it feels to think that. Past glory. Current stability. Money in the bank, more of it than most people ever see in their lives. On the road a lot, but summers are quiet. Not bad looking. Larsson had called him beautiful once, a level of honesty in his voice that left Adam feeling uncomfortable, shaken, naked in his skin. The most beautiful person he’d ever seen, saying it to him.

He excuses himself to the bathroom, searches until he finds one, runs the tap, taking fast swallows of beer until it’s empty and he has an excuse to go back to the kitchen, maybe say he just remembered something he had to do, game tape, talk to Warren, anything. Heather’s there, taking food out of the fridge. He sees a vegetable platter in there, feels foolish. She didn’t need another. It’ll probably just go to waste.

“I’m not really looking,” Adam says. “You know, to date right now.”

“Say no more,” Heather says. “Oh, let me introduce you to Johnny’s brother.”

Adam wonders for a second if she heard something in what he said, something she shouldn’t have, that he didn’t want her to, but then, her husband’s brother doesn’t exactly look, well —

He isn’t like that. 

“I don’t watch hockey,” is the first thing Cal says when Heather walks away after introducing them, so Adam guesses he knows Adam’s job too. He wonders how many people here do. “Except maybe a couple playoff games if the Jets are still in it.”

“Not a sports fan?” Adam asks, instead of ‘thank fuck’. 

“Football,” Cal says. “Other than that, nah.”

“NFL, CFL?” Adam says.

“Roughriders, Vikings,” Cal says.

“Not a Bombers fan?” Adam asks.

“I like winning,” Cal says.

“But the Vikings?” Adam says. They’re not a bad team, not like the Blue Bombers, but they aren’t winners either.

“Well I’m sure as shit not going to cheer for the Patriots,” Cal says.

Adam can’t help but crack a smile.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those,” Cal says.

“Raiders,” Adam says. “Lived in Oakland when they were doing really good. And Roughriders. My billet dad in Saskatchewan was obsessed with them, made sure to get me into it.”

“Pick up a team to cheer for wherever you go?” Cal asks.

“Well, I lived in New England for a bit, but I’m still not a Patriots fan,” Adam says.

“Good man,” Cal says. “Get you another beer?” 

“Thanks,” Adam says, hands Cal his empty, gets another, sweating in his hand.

“There’s a Vikings game on Monday,” Cal says. “If you want to watch a team that’s not stuck in the past.”

“The Raiders aren’t that bad,” Adam says, then surprises himself with a, “Sure. Anywhere in mind? I don’t really know the bars around here.”

“My place has a good TV and the beer’s free,” Cal says.

“Well,” Adam says. “If the beer’s free.”

Cal scribbles his address on a pad of paper hanging from the fridge, rips it off and hands it to Adam. Adam dimly wonders if anyone remembers that phones okay for that kind of thing; harder to lose a text than a slip of paper. He tucks it carefully in his pocket after he reads it three times, just in case. Cal heads out after the beer, and Adam makes his excuses to Heather, heads out himself. Types the address in his phone when he gets home, before he can lose it. Cracks another beer, even though he doesn’t usually drink more than one, maybe two. He’s going to get a gut like most of the guys in retirement, still shoveling in the calories even though they aren’t working them off anymore.

Dana calls, and he talks to her while he eats a sandwich in front of the sink, not bothering with a plate. Finishes his beer. It’s dark out, but there’s a lot of evening left before you can even call it night. He grabs his laptop, intending to go over the last Wheat Kings game again, take some notes, but he finds himself looking up the Vikings instead, just so he knows what he’s talking about on Monday.


End file.
